


Lapse of Control

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Future Fic, Post-Book(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The years were treating her kindly, she was proud to say—she was just shy of five-and-twenty, yet her skin was as unlined and smooth as the day she had first entered King’s Landing, back when she still had some trappings of innocence about her. (Petyr/adult!Sansa)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapse of Control

He was still a handsome man, though the gray strands that had once threaded through his hair had all but taken over, till only a hint of darkness remained. It seemed to suit him, though, adding a sense of steeliness to his gray-green gaze that had not been there years before. Or perhaps it had always been there, and she had not been equipped to recognize that at the time.

“My Lord?” Sansa said by way of greeting. He was standing in the center of her receiving parlor, hands clasped behind his back. He had arrived just shortly before, his boots still dusty, but she had not allowed him the chance to rest. She didn’t think he would have accepted it even if she did.

“My Lady,” he replied with one of his genuine smiles and a slight bow. She had become used to differentiating between his false and true smiles, and it warmed her heart a bit the day she realized most of the ones he favored her with were genuine. There was still the false smile here or there, when he was Littlefinger, but today he smiled with his eyes as well as his mouth and she returned it eagerly, as she crossed the room to kiss his cheek.

Petyr caught her wrist in one slim hand and drew back to admire her. She could see the pleasure in his eyes, which was not unexpected; they went through this same dance every time. The years were treating her kindly, she was proud to say—she was just shy of five-and-twenty, yet her skin was as unlined and smooth as the day she had first entered King’s Landing, back when she still had some trappings of innocence about her.

  


“I trust you had a safe trip?” she asked, after a respectful interval. “The Vale can be perilous even in summer.”

“Worth it for such a reward,” he answered, and if she were to hear him say that to anyone but her she would have felt he was mocking them. As it was, she kissed his cheek again, just at the edge of his lips, in gratitude.

“Is your husband away?” he asked. They both knew the answer to that. He never made such a trip when there was a chance of catching Harry at home, not that he was at home much to begin with. She nodded her head anyway, giving him with a wicked grin. The dance was well-known to them both, but there were still steps that were required. He returned it, eyes sparkling, and she felt a rush of excitement shoot down her spin. There was something else he wanted to say, she could tell, but he seemed to decide against broaching it at this time.

Sansa moved to fill them both a goblet of Arbor Gold, strangely proud of how calm her hands were. Even after all these years, after the restoration of her identity (a long recovery she did not like to dwell on) there was still an illicit thrill in these actions, especially when they were still playing at being respectable. He had trained her well, and to the world she was the Lady of the Vale—as strong and cold as the mountains that surrounded her. But when she was with him, something of the time she had spent as his daughter, of his tutelage, hung in the air. She was alternately excited for his attention and eager to please, and it was liable to cause her to misstep.

But she was still learning, and she was growing better at keeping her wits about her. The wine in the goblet barely moved as she handed it to him, even when his fingers caressed the back of her hand. They both drank deep, eyes meeting over the silver rims of their cups; another perfunctory step.

****

Her rooms were chilly even in the middle of summer, but she preferred them that way. The cold would raise gooseflesh on her skin in the mornings, when she slipped out from under her covers, but the pricking sensation was always strangely thrilling. She felt more alive, more alert, when she was in that state.

It was the same when she was with him, though in those instances it was the heat that coursed through her that was at fault. Heat caused by the trail of his mouth on her neck, the slightest touch of his hand on her back. It had always been like this, no matter how many times over the years they had coupled, and she hoped it would continue to be so. No other man had ever made her feel this way, all wicked and aroused all at once. No other man had ever made her breath hitch quite like he did. No other man had ever gotten her wet just by running his fingers up her arm.

She wasn’t sure if any other man would be able to. He had been her introduction into a world where the act could be pleasurable and not just dutiful. He had opened her eyes to it one night in his solar, less than a fortnight after she had married Harry—and from then on she had been his plaything, just as surely as she had made Harry hers.

She locked the door, and without another word his hands were at her laces, her mouth at her neck. She closed her eyes and allowed her limbs to relax for the first time in what felt like ages; she never realized how on edge she was until she melted back into him. He had always been a slim man, and she more than matched his height now, but in these moments she was more than willing to let go and allow him power over her. A part of her still stayed alert--the part of her that never completely trusted him—but a separate part of her thrilled at the loss of control.

Her gown was coming undone, slowly. His lips caressed the exposed pale flesh, still unmarked. “Do you tremble like this for Harry?”

Sansa smiled slightly; it had begun. “No, my Lord.”

Her gown fell away, landing in a crumpled heap about her feet, leaving her in her shift. Normally she would have moved to hang the soft silks up, but she remained standing where she was. His hand grasped the hem of her shift, fingers brushing against her thigh and causing her to bite her lip.

“Would you let Harry strip you like this?” Petyr asked, his lips at her ear; it was more of a kiss than anything else, to tell the truth.

“No,” she replied, on the end of a breath. It was true, whenever they were together she always made sure to undress beforehand. It gave her some thrill to deny him that.

His hand left her hem and he pulled his mouth away. “No what?” he asked, his voice still quiet but now carrying a definite edge that left her weak.

“No, my Lord,” she corrected herself. Later she would use him name, always later, once he had permitted her to. Her shift was pulled above her head and his hands went to her smallclothes, deft fingers sliding down against her hipbones. She shivered slightly, though she was no longer cold.  
His lips found her collarbone. “Would you let him see you beg?”

She raised one arm and ran a shaking hand through his hair, pressing him closer to her. She could feel his cock through his thin clothing, a testament to just how difficult it must be for him to remain in control. “No, my lord.”

Her smallclothes joined the pile on the floor and one of his clever hands slid forward to the warm, wet space between her legs. The other cupped a breast, reverently, and that was it; she moaned, and felt him smirk against her skin. He bit down lightly, just enough to leave a mark on her shoulder, the first of what she knew would be many.

“Certainly not like you beg for me,” he said, and there was no way she could answer that. _It’s true, gods forgive me, it’s true._ Had been true ever since that night in his solar, when she screamed his name for the first time. She knew it would be true for as long as she could foresee.

She was spared having to answer when he found her clit, and she would have fell forward in a heap had she not been locked against him. He teased her lightly, causing her legs to tremble, deliberately holding back from giving her as much as she wanted. She found herself struggling to keep from crying out—not yet, not now.

His hands left without warning and she’s sure she _would_ have cried out had he not taken her hand and led her to the bed. She followed without a word, thinking of all the times it had been her that had led Harry across this same floor. He never seemed to question where she learned everything she used on him. Perhaps he enjoyed it too much to care. She hoped so, it would be easier on the both of them.

She took her usual place among the sheets and pillows, watching him with half-lidded eyes. There were cracks beginning to appear in his calm demeanor, most notably his now-shallow breathing. She always enjoyed that, when she could see him begin to break as well. He would retain the power, as his position as teacher demanded, but he was never completely unaffected and that made giving in all the sweeter.

His fingers gripped her thigh, tightly. She could picture the bruises that would be there in the morning and smiled privately at the thought.

Petyr made his way upward, caressing her skin, the slick folds between her legs, before sliding one slim finger into her slowly. It seemed as though all her pent-up emotions were released by that single, small action. Her hands fisted in the sheets, gripped at her hair, and she moaned in a way she knew would please him.

He was smirking, she could tell that without evening looking at him, and he was going much too slow. She brought her own hand down to her clit and he caught it, roughly, and pinned it to the side. The movement was expected, and the grip was pleasant, but it was frustrating nonetheless. Sansa tried not to let him see how much it affected her, which of course only made it more obvious, and his smirk deepened till it seemed to extend to his whole body.

“Only when I say,” he explained, as though he needed to. “And you have to ask me first. Or has it been so long you have forgotten?”

She tried to speak but the words died on her tongue, so she shook her head from side to side, her hair falling in her face. Another finger joined the one already tormenting her and he fucked her slowly, seeming to savor how she felt around him. It was not enough and she pressed down in a desperate effort to push him along, which only seemed to amuse him more, as it always did. “Just say the words.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and she could tell that he was struggling as well. If she still had her wits about her, she would have thought of denying him that, of making him suffer, but she needed release too badly.

“Please….” The word was more breathed than spoke, and ended with a gasp.

He gave a laughed, his voice trembling slightly. “Please what?”

“Please…let me come…my Lord.” The words were familiar to them both, but every time she said them—voice cracked and breaking, body taunt underneath him—he sucked in a breath. It was the sweetest sound imaginable.

He did as he was asked, and brought his thumb up to her clit. Her back arched at his touch. “Beg for me,” she heard, though possibly it was all in her mind—all of their past encounters seemed present in each new one, and perhaps the words were just some auditory memory. Just as she could occasionally feel the sting of a switch on her backside or silken bonds around her wrists, even when their actions were as simple as they now were. Still, she obliged, and mewed out a string of filthy pleas, encompassing everything they had ever done together.

He quickened his pace and her orgasm hit her harm and fast, as it always did. She came with a cry that was muffled by his hand, her feet twisting in the sheets, the very picture of everything that a lady should never be. She thought of the way Harry broke for her, a sweaty mess underneath her hands, and wondered what he would think if he ever saw her like this. _Not that he ever would._

It seemed ages before she was calm and collected again. When she was, she was suddenly well aware of how undone he was, how close to the edge he seemed. She brushed one hand against the bulge in his breeches, a lazy gesture, and he jerked forward almost uncontrollably. He hid the movement by sliding down till he was next to her, in a position to whisper in her ear. “What do you want now, sweetling?

She could feel the press of his cock against her thigh. She knew he must be painfully hard, yet still she was the one who had to ask. She was willing to, for the feel of him. She gave him one of her well-practiced smiles. “Fuck me, my Lord.”

He groaned deep in his chest; he loved to hear the filthy word pass her lips. They both pulled at his laces until he was freed, and he slid into her easily, quickly, sweetly. He was still fully clothed; she loved the feel of that, of being naked underneath him, of being taken in such a way. _Only for him,_ her brain said, though she was never really able to articulate why.

“You can say it now,” he grunted in her ear, before biting down on the soft skin of her neck. She tangled her hands in his hair, wrapped her legs around his back, and cried out his name as he came inside her.

****

“Are you still… _fond_ of Harry?”

The question broke the lazy silence that had filled through room for the better part of an hour. The sun was setting, she could see—the shadows lengthening across the far wall. Before he spoke she had been unaware of the time, mesmerized by the bones in his hand.

Somehow, she knew that this is the subject he had wanted to address earlier, back in the parlor when they were still respectable. “Would it bother you if I was?”

“No,” he said, and she believed him. If there was another man she begged to, then it would bother him. “But years of marriage and no heirs…”

She said nothing to that. The moon tea was bitter, but necessary if they were to continue—whatever it was that this was. And bitter or not, she had grown rather fond of it. She wasn’t sure why, what there was for her to gain in the cups she downed, but somehow she knew she could not allow herself to be tied to the Vale, the way a birth would tie her to it. Harry never said anything, but then again he was not the inquisitive type.

Petyr placed a tender kiss at her temple and she wondered if he could guess at it, not that it would matter. “I was just saying, I think you’ve tried enough with him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sansa sat up and brushed the hair from her face, while he admired her. He always had been transfixed by her hair. “Another marriage?”

“That would be…beneficial, I think. To more than one party.” He kissed her hand, and she knew that that matter was settled.

“I will require your help, of course. With Harry.”

“Of course,” he agreed, his voice light. It was as though she had asked him for nothing more than his help planning a meal.

She smiled at him, a light one tinged with a bit of steel.


End file.
